


Just a Taste

by MischiefJoKeR



Series: Jimlock Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampire Moriarty, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets a visit in the night, when John is away.</p><p>Based off of beautiful fanart by the lovely inferno92 on Tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Taste

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the artwork and ficlet I did for it right here>   
> http://jimlock.tumblr.com/post/67328609420/inferno92-colored-pencil-on-paper-a3-someone

As a detective, Sherlock was always preparing himself for the unexpected. His knowledge of supernatural beings was finite: something he never really researched unless necessary. Simply enough, many cases the Yard needed his assistance on were done by various immortal creatures that had left quite a mess behind. They were difficult to find, considering how secretive they kept their alternate forms. Sherlock was nearly convinced the Hound of Baskerville would have easily been some werewolf causing a publicity stunt. He wouldn’t admit that to John, obviously, considering it was an incorrect assumption. For being a more simple-minded man, John remained factual and did not get involved with the superstitions that Sherlock on most days didn’t believe himself.

But John wasn’t there right now. Off to Dublin visiting his Rugby mates, he’d said, probably getting shit-faced and writing bad poetry to coax some lass into his hotel room. Baker Street was humming with nervously-suppressed energy, as Sherlock wasn’t alone in his home. It was late, not that he’d been sleeping. He was tuning his violin at his desk stacked high with books and sheets of music, looking out the window to the dark, damp London streets. He felt his heart beat a bit faster, a sweat glistening his brow. Odd reaction, nervous, unsure feeling pulsing through self, never unsure, no cause to be so right now. Conclusion, not a natural reaction. Number of things that can alter biological and psychological productions of blood and emotions, several narcotics: impossible, clean for four years, eight months. Adrenaline, still no cause for it to appear on its—oh.

Vampire.

He heard the door to 221b open and close with care, as if the one returning didn’t want to wake their flat mate. John wouldn’t be home for another day, if Sherlock’s biological clock had kept up with him properly.

“Well, aren’t you the night owl.” The Irish lilt that flooded in was made to sound increasingly pleasant. Another sign of a vampire, their charms. He wouldn’t have taken Moriarty for a vampire, but now it made much more sense.

“Most people knock. Though I suppose you aren’t most people.” He stressed the word, setting down his violin delicately. Moriarty hadn’t let loose his secret when they last met at the pool. He came uninvited, assaulting Sherlock’s senses with charms, which surely meant one thing: a confrontation. He turned and was unsurprised when the toes of Moriarty’s bowlers were touching his bared feet, inanely close with no sound. He held his breath, subconsciously leveling his shoulders. He was larger than Moriarty, having the height advantage. But he could hardly say he was skilled at combating vampires. “To what do I owe the visit?”

“I was in the area.” James rocked on his heels, the edge of his suit brushing Sherlock’s dressing gown. The thought of being completely unaware to the other’s arrival and not being at all presentable for his archenemy made the anxiety flutter in his stomach once more. He swallowed it down. It’s his powers, it is not a natural reaction.”Was trying to get something to eat, ya know. Hard to get take-away with naughty big brother bothering me at all times.”

“How unfortunate if he were to find out about your dependency.” Sherlock tilted his chin however slightly. Moriarty’s smile stretched further across his face, bleach white teeth showing and—oh gods. His canines had enlarged, beginning to slip their way in front of his lower teeth and become more difficult to conceal. “I wonder if he already knows. I can see it easily now. You were raised in Ireland but your background is more than likely from somewhere further East. Dark hair, pale skin, color only around your lips, able to maintain several personas and disappear without a word of question. Very standard physiology, really.”

“You pay attention to my lips, Sherly?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, as of course his deductions wouldn’t be impressive at all to the consulting criminal. He could be running a crime spree for centuries and no one would know. He probably had been. “As much as you showing how smart you are gets us both off, I swung in because I knew where I could get a tasty snack.” His hands shot forward like blurs, grabbing the detective’s forearms in a visceral grip. Sherlock hissed, the hold much too tight. He spun his arms to disengage him, kicking forwards at the same time. Moriarty took a step back to balance, but before Sherlock could even blink he was back at him, tackling him to the desk with hands pushing his shoulders painfully down. The younger Holmes let out a noise that could be classified as a snarl, trying to use his weight to throw Moriarty away once more. He was held down regardless, the man above him laughing.

“Well, that was fun.” Moriarty chuckled, pupils blown wide and dark, definitely inhuman. “Come now, virgin. Consider it collecting data. I get what I want, you get something you want.” Moriarty’s voice turned soft, and against his will Sherlock’s limbs went numb and slack. The cold, pale fingers released their grip and parted away the dressing gown, baring Sherlock’s shoulders and a stripe of his torso. Sherlock attempted to throw him off, only find his limbs capable of quaking and remaining stuck where he gripped the edge of his messy desk. “Such pretty skin, Mr. Holmes. You’ve got no idea how much I think about making it bleed for me.” The hands lingered a moment too long over his chest before smoothing back up onto his shoulders. Moriarty leaned forward and inhaled, as if he could take in everything about the detective by the scent under his jaw line.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled between grit teeth. Seemed his speech was also impaired, but the irritation didn’t stop him. “This simply makes it easier for me to destroy you.”

“Mm…that’s nice.” Jim practically moaned into his ear, before pulling back enough to look up at the detective’s face. “Your scent, I mean. Do as you please, I’d love to see you scrambling around in your ill-fitting suits carrying bulbs of garlic and silver daggers and whatever else your fairy tales tell you.” Sherlock opened his mouth to make a clearer rebuttal. The sound stopped in his throat as the cold hand slipped up to where the criminal had rested his chin. A sharp prick, so familiar from Sherlock’s post-university life: needles and a dull burn, startled him. He felt the wet ooze of blood coming from an open wound Moriarty had sliced with his finger nails. Part of Sherlock reminded himself it wouldn’t be infected with how ridiculously well-kept the criminal kept himself, but the other part of him flinched at the implication.

Moriarty’s eyes became more cloudy and hooded than Sherlock had seen before. With the fluttering of terror forcing its way through his veins, the spell forbid him from causing noise, screaming, thrashing, anything. Vampires rarely drained their victims dry but the look on Moriarty’s face led him to believe the villain wanted to do nothing but eat him whole. Moriarty surged forward before his mind could conjure any unheard, unspoken protests, large canines sinking into the already split skin.

Sherlock must have closed his eyes, a loud humming going on in his arteries and setting off synapses in his mind palace, all the lights off. It made a symphony of…god, everything. Pleasure, pain, a delicious mix of them both. Warmth, chill, something smooth and yet silky like sheets that were freshly laundered. The orchestra could have lasted his entire life, something he’d play on repeat whenever he’d escape in his mind palace and prevent him from ever thinking a thought again. It only lasted at most six seconds, and it abruptly stopped. Like Bach, unable to die without hearing the complete tune, Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he jolted forwards, finding himself collapsing against the chair somewhere to his right. 221b came back into focus, as did his ability to remember he had limbs. A hand caught his dressing gown from falling before going to clasp the area of his neck. The blood was non-existent, a wound gone but only marked with slightly raised skin. His heart was still thundering, but it was all natural this time. The last time he’d had this spike of adrenaline or endorphins must have been…Irene Adler.

“My, my. That was a tasty treat after all. Lock that away in your mind palace, my dear. Gotta run, murders to plan, fools to embezzle. Nice look, going commando, too. Lucky little John Watson.” The voice grew quieter as Moriarty inevitably took silent steps out of the flat, laughing until the door was delicately shut behind him. Sherlock scrambled to his feet in seconds, peering out the window where an unassuming young man looked both ways before crossing the street, poised as he stepped into the darkness of an alleyway.


End file.
